He looks at me with eyes like
daggers and carves insults
into my arms and legs when
I try to take a bite. A shot fires
across a long, wooden table
as if it were a damp battle ground,
brought inside and slightly civilized.
It seems the distance between
us is expanding as the words roll
off of my tongue and into the barrel
aimed just inches from his nose.
he knows exactly which exits to
bar when I run for cover and push
past empty threats towards the border-
line that lies in the deep base of our
hidden banquet room. I've prepared
meals here before but never with
ingredients like this. Cyanide and
casserole, salted with sarcasm and
murmurs of affection. The cannon
fires again and I check that I'm not
bleeding. No need to retaliate. The
reinforcements should be here soon
if I could just remember how to dial 911.